


grounded (and falling into the universe)

by sailingthenightsea



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Prays, Dean's POV, Forgive Me, Like, M/M, Post 12x23, also it's poetic as fuck, basically this is dean reacting to losing cas, dean is compared to the universe, dean thinks he isn't worth anything, i tagged it major character death BUT IT'S CANONICAL, i'm really tired, is this poetry, is this prose, lowercase is a choice, right after, spoiler alert: he's wrong, the universe is a blanket, the world may never know, well i say post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 10:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12106347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailingthenightsea/pseuds/sailingthenightsea
Summary: there is a man.there is an angel who grounds him.this is what happens when the angel is gone.--come on in if you enjoy poetic writing and metaphors about the universe. if you don't, come in anyway or i will find you and kick you in the kneecaps for not trying new things.





	grounded (and falling into the universe)

**Author's Note:**

> _suddenly, there is no difference between his flesh and the inky sky. and there are wings burned into the grass. the scene is overwhelmingly beautiful in an utterly wretched way._

the grass is damp where he kneels, and the cold is starting to soak through his jeans. it'll probably stain. he'll have to pre-treat them. his thoughts slip to the laundry waiting back at the bunker. it's not much, it never is, but it's more than they had when they were always on the road. before they had a home, he thinks, but the word "home" feels strange, like it doesn't fit. he doesn't think about why. he can't because that will lead him down a dangerous road. so he focuses on the easy things, the things that he can control. 

cleaning up and repairing the bunker will probably take a few months, less than that if he doesn't sleep. he doesn't think about why he'll be awake night. he doesn't have to because the nightmares are already building at the back of his mind. he pushes them away for a little while longer. 

after everything is repaired, he should probably change the locks just in case the british men of letters don't leave them alone. for a moment he thinks that maybe they'll catch a break, but he dismisses the thought because when do they ever get off easy? 

the impala probably needs some repairs; he hasn't given her much attention in a while. 

his fingers twitch with the need to work, to build, to destroy, to _do something_. suddenly the feeling is overwhelming. he can't breathe and he has to move _right now_ , but he can't make his legs cooperateーalmost like the signal is getting lost somewhere along the way. 

his nerves feel tangled and frayed. his skeleton feels heavyーheavier than he can bearーbut brittle, like any movement could turn it all to dust. his muscles feel slow, numb, impossible to use. his skin feels tight and too thin and fragile (almost like the pages of a bible, he thinks, but there's nothing holy about him). 

sam'll be worried. he likes to talk about things. feelings. maybe he should, he thinks, talk to sam. maybe it'd help. 

he won't. even if he wants to let everything out, he won't. he's too afraid of what might escape. 

he's getting cold. he wonders how long he's been kneeling here, but "kneeling" isn't really the word. it sounds pure. holy. "kneeling" sounds like prayer, but who the fuck does he even pray to now? who is he supposed to believe in? no, kneeling is for people with faith. he didn't kneel, he fell. no, he _crumpled_. like a piece of paper in a fist. like atlas under the weight of the heavens and the earth. falling is for beautiful things that started out somewhere better. falling is for angels. he doesn't _deserve_ falling. (he doesn't deserve a lot of things, he thinks, least of all to have been saved). 

so no, he didn't kneel, he didn't fall, he crumpled because he's weak and this is _too much_ and _he can't do it_. 

he's crying. and shaking. trembling. he hadn't noticed that before, but he's not surprised. 

everything is empty. like the universe finally sucked every last bit of life out of him. the punchline of a long-running joke, and he can't find it in himself to laugh. he should probably be screaming. he thinks it hurts, but he's not sure anymore. he thinks he hears something gut wrenching and dirty and primal. oh, he thinks, maybe he is screaming. is he still crying? his face is wet. like the ground and his jeans. a breeze picks up. it moves the grass. blows his broken pieces away. scattering them into the stars. 

he's empty. he feels nothing. 

he's empty. he feels _every goddamn thing_. he feels each of his pieces press together until they bleed. he feels the grass underneath him. the cold seeping into his jeans. the breeze. he feels the eyes of every starーall watching him. he feels the pity in their stares. they're crying for him. or maybe he's crying. he thinks it doesn't really matter anymore. 

suddenly, there is no difference between his flesh and the inky sky. no separation between the clouds of his breath and storms brewing in the distanceーeach tense with static and anticipation. where his fingertips end, the universe begins, and where his fingertips begin, the universe folds around him like a warm blanketーexcept his lips are turning blue. 

he feels himself floating away deep into the ground, but this time there will be no rescue. this time the earth plans to hold tightーfilling his head with soil and letting the roots make their home in his chest cavity. 

this time he knows that when he wakes up screaming, he will be met with an empty room. 

he feels a little like running. he feels a lot like throwing up. 

his vision is blurry, so he blinks. he sees his angel. part of him wonders where the "his" came from, but he already knows. 

he can almost pretend that cas is just sleeping. but he knows that he doesn't need sleep. and there are wings burned into the grass. the scene is overwhelmingly beautiful in an utterly wretched way. castiel is beautifulーthe most beautiful thing he has ever seen. 

his eyes keep straying back to the blackened earth. his wings look broken; there are too many missing feathers. he blames himself. if he hadn't dragged the angel down into the mud, maybe he wouldn't be here. he blames himself for the falling. he didn't deserve it. he wasn't worth it. 

he opens his mouth to pray. for a moment, he wonders when he stopped hating it. the angel told him once that prayer was a sign of faith. he never considered himself the praying type. how could he? god had let so many terrible things happen to so many good people. he may have looked god in the eyes, but he never once prayed to him. when he prayed, he only ever prayed to _cas_. he was one of the very few people he ever had faith in. that's the only kind of faith he knows, faith in the people he cares about, the people he loves. so he prays. he's not holy. he's not kneeling. he doesn't deserve to be saved. but he still prays. he prays, but it feels like calling a number that's long since been disconnected because he's praying to an angel that has been scattered into nothingness. it's empty. he wants to scream, but, instead, he keeps praying. to cas. to his angel. 

dean winchester prays. 

and it goes unanswered.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading even if you only did so for the sake of your kneecaps (you should always try new things)!! 
> 
> comments and kudos are much appreciated (and often obsessed over)!!


End file.
